


the road builds

by stringendos



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: (very minor but more info in start notes!), M/M, Minor Injuries, Pre-Canon, Volleyball, bokuroo through high school and pushing each other to keep improving
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-10
Updated: 2020-09-10
Packaged: 2021-03-06 14:48:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26390656
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stringendos/pseuds/stringendos
Summary: Palms snap together in thanks for first meals of the morning and no amount of fanfare. But this is a hunger that only volleyball can satisfy; with the ache that weaves into limbs after matches, the feeling of leather beneath fingertips; the tingle in palms after tosses well spiked.Strange, this; how so many dreams can be stuffed into two handfuls. How between these two palms lies an entire universe and a lifetime of want.a three year sprint, two captain jerseys, and a chase for the top
Relationships: Bokuto Koutarou/Kuroo Tetsurou
Comments: 5
Kudos: 19





	the road builds

**Author's Note:**

> **mentioned character injury:** kuroo injures his ankle on a bad landing at the net. only briefly mentioned in passing, and one that heals, but still; take care if character injury is a difficult subject for you!

Mistakes here, when defending a battleground of eighty-one square metres, can often feel like the size of planets, of entire solar systems.

* * *

In the losses marking the end of their first high school tournaments, Kuroo gets subbed out for an injury that comes in rushed blocks and landings, too hard on the shoreline; in turn, Bokuto meets the bench for running too hard, caught in the flow of the game that sweeps him away, current too strong.

Foolish enough to think he can still chase skylines, their post loss race is cut short when Kuroo’s ankle buckles. In quiet apologies, as quiet as they come between them, alongside the bitter aftertaste of regret, Bokuto carries Kuroo on his back and takes the long way home, avoiding the winding hills that climb too high, dejection heavy on their necks.

The first time, Kuroo sprayed his ankle with air salonpas, a _certified bottled miracle_ , and threw it at Bokuto for it to bounce off of his forehead. This time, he catches it without thinking, a grin to mirror Kuroo’s own.

Buddy taping fingers before practice becomes a ritual; the steady winding that grows, over joints and bones and bumps in knuckles. With it will come the second nature of yielding to aches, and learning then, when to push, when to pull.

* * *

In second year, they've grown; in height, in skill, in age; and they would argue, to anyone who denies, in wisdom; for one year on, they’re more familiar with the court that they have made a home in, and stars no longer cloud their vision.

They keep training and learning and building on foundations left behind; and meet up in between, to run with konbini debts on the line. Nekoma falls first, and Kuroo says through tears, _you better keep going._

The morning after Fukurodani follows suit, landing a bruising loss which knocks them out of nationals, Bokuto asks to meet, as far as asking goes, and says, voice still thick after another bout of crying, “I was only just getting started.”

Palms snap together in thanks for first meals of the morning and no amount of fanfare. But this is a hunger that only volleyball can satisfy; with the ache that weaves into limbs after matches, the feeling of leather beneath fingertips; the tingle in palms after tosses well spiked.

Strange, this; how so many dreams can be stuffed into two handfuls. How between these two palms lies an entire universe and a lifetime of want.

Toes of their running shoes knocked against asphalt, they sprint home, in pursuit of another chance to pierce the sky, to let the ceiling shatter around them.

* * *

Two weeks before the end of his second year, Nekomata-sensei pulls Kuroo to the side after practice, his smile proud, and asks, “Ready to lead them?” 

It is not a difficult decision for Kuroo to make: to break the news in person. Bokuto, in turn, holds no such patience.

For Bokuto, Kuroo has learnt, three in the morning honesty offers two usual options.

The first: crippling worries that take root and grow fast in winding vines around necks, threatening to choke. The second: bottomless invincibility as if the world is built from your feet downwards, for you are its summit. At three in the morning, Bokuto, predictably unpredictable, just as Kuroo forecasts, constructs a third vein. Laced with the jitter that comes with happinesses eager to share, his phone screen lights up with _doesnt captain suit me?_

When they arrange to meet again, in front of the konbini that somehow housed a meeting point, Kuroo gives his reply in a greeting yelled from across the street. “I think it suits me better!”

A grin then, over a shared taiyaki, split evenly down the middle: tail to Kuroo, head to Bokuto. They raise their halves, then bump them together, in celebratory cheers and a promise for new kingdoms to conquer.

Another race follows, with no goal in sight and no penalties on the line.

Side by side with Bokuto, Kuroo feels the wind in his hair and the rush in his lungs, air still lingering with cold, beginnings of spring just beyond the doorstep. Feels then, his fingers antsy, that itch that keeps burrowing down, now bone deep. Like he could sprint for one thousand miles, and another thousand more.

Chests heaving as they tumble down into the fork in the road, Kuroo calls out before they part, “See you on the other side.”

In return, Bokuto raises a fist, first promises as captains made.

* * *

_Rivals_ , they might label it.

Similar veins of captains, of Tokyo representatives; of learning how to broaden backs, and fit into pairs of shoes left behind for them, too loose around the ankles. They meet here; at konbinis and the city outskirt’s backstreets; and will meet _there_ , the smell of air salonpas hanging over them; on opposite sides of the court; always with a net between, _high_ but never _too high._

They race in ways that people do not realise.

Push and pull gives way to hands to backs, soles against the court floor, in lead ups to spikes. Bokuto, always ready to sprint for the skies. Kuroo across from him, ready to topple buildings to do so, and bring the clouds down to him. As captains, Bokuto pulls his teammates along with him in his tide; Kuroo pushes from behind. Together, shoulders bumping, captains jerseys on their backs, they take off once more, to take on higher summits.

On the ground, Kuroo laces up, then goes in for distractions; a push at Bokuto to stumble off the beaten path, in petty chances of head starts. Bokuto, meeting him three quarters of the way, pushes right back. Thought trains always picked up on, hands outstretched to pull the other along, to climb further than any eye can see.

* * *

Out on the open road they go, as if the road builds, brick by brick underfoot; and only stops when feet grind to a halt.

**Author's Note:**

> \- originally written as a last minute kuroo week attempt and posted on my twitter [here](https://twitter.com/centreskies/status/1297206266792640512)  
> \- this is lowkey just extremely watered down volleyball lovemail  
> \- im caught in a vicious cycle of Not Writing → even if i do, i never finish anything → even if i do That, i dont like it enough to post it → never posting Ever → gdocs piling up w words that will never see the light of day  
> \- so! im just trying to get outta this slump that has lasted for Literal years  
> \- and im still trying to figure out how to write again... it is...... difficult..........  
> \- so delete later (probably???) im just trying to... get used to posting online lol  
>  ~~\- basically me @ anon option on ao3 once again: i might as well!!!!~~
> 
> thank you for reading!! :)


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